


Sleeping Habits

by Wordsy



Series: Habits [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blue Team - Freeform, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, PTSD, let me know if I missed anything, post-sidewinder, psycho used as an insult, wash has some issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: It hits Tucker that violently shaking the sleeping Freelancer out of a nightmare might be an exceptionally stupid idea at the exact same time Washington headbutts him in the nose.Or, Wash wakes up swinging.
Relationships: Lavernius Tucker & Agent Washington, Michael J. Caboose & Lavernius Tucker
Series: Habits [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356412
Comments: 22
Kudos: 224





	1. Chapter One

Washington is ten different kinds of weird.

First of all, after he was done being unconscious from blood loss following the shit show on Sidewinder, the man didn’t sleep for three days. Tucker knows because he didn’t sleep for two. At the time, Tucker wasn’t confident Washington wasn’t going to murder them in their beds. But the knowledge that Wash was healing from a fuck load of broken ribs and other injuries—forcing him to move around the base in a distinctly painful-looking shuffle—made Tucker feel a bit safer. That and keeping his sword under his pillow while he slept.

* * *

Then there’s the fact that Washington might be the lightest sleeper Tucker’s ever encountered. A few days after Wash starts actually sleeping, Tucker is sitting awake in his room reading. He sneezes, and ten seconds later, Wash is standing in the doorway like the creepy omen of death he is. 

Tucker startles so hard he almost falls off the bed.

“Jesus shit!” Tucker hisses, grabbing his chest. “Have you ever heard of knocking? Or, I don’t know, _breathing?”_

“I heard something,” Wash says dully, not moving from where he stands in the shadows of the hall. Hunched and pale from his injuries, the man looks like a fucking wraith. 

“I _sneezed,”_ Tucker tells him. “You come all the way here to say ‘bless you?’” Washington’s room is at the opposite end of the hallway.

“Oh,” Wash says quietly. “Okay.”

With that, the man turns and fades back into the darkness. A few moments later Tucker hears Wash’s door click shut.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” Tucker mutters and goes back to reading.

* * *

A week into the new sleeping arrangements, Tucker wakes up to a figure standing over his bed.

Tucker lets out an embarrassingly high-pitched shriek, clawing at the blankets. He’s surprised it took Wash a full seven days to want to strangle him with his own bedsheets. For most people, it only takes about twenty-four hours—

“Tucker,” Caboose shushes. “It’s me.”

“Caboose,” Tucker growls, trying to get his heart rate back under control. He heaves a breath. “I swear to god, I’m gonna count to three, and the mustard better be back in the fridge.”

“I am not doing...that thing I did not do that time...this time,” Caboose says. “It’s Church.”

“Church?” Tucker blinks a few times before scowling. “You mean _Agent Washington.”_

“It’s Agent Washington.” Caboose corrects, deflating slightly. His hands wring the front of his t-shirt. “He is making noises.”

Tucker rolls over, cocooning himself in the blankets. “Then tell him to keep it down.”

Caboose prods at his back. “Nooo, Tucker. They are not good noises.” He pauses. “I think Agent Washington is not very okay.”

Tucker grits his teeth. He doesn’t give a flying fuck how “not very okay” Wash is. But Tucker should at least make sure those noises aren’t the Freelancer loading a pistol to shoot them all.

“Fine,” Tucker grumbles, tossing the covers aside. “Where’s he at?”

“His room.”

That’s unusual. It’s after three in the morning, and Wash is usually up wandering the base by now with a lost look on his face. 

“Go back to bed,” Tucker tells Caboose. He stashes his energy sword in the pocket of his pajama pants and heads for the door. “I’ll take care of it.”

Caboose nods and shuffles off to his own room, while Tucker heads for Washington’s. 

Halfway down the hall, Tucker hears it. Whimpering.

The sound stops Tucker in his tracks. He strains his ears because he’s gotta be hearing things but no, there it is again. A dragged out whine followed by a strangled gasp.

Tucker rocks back and forth on his heels. He’s got half a mind to turn around and go back to bed—maybe close Caboose’s door on the way so the noises don’t carry and wake him again.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Tucker mumbles. He eyes the door at the end of the dark hall. 

Tucker hadn’t thought this far ahead when he’d agreed to let Wash come home with them. In Tucker’s defense, he’d been really fucking tired at the time. It had been a long, shitty day, and he was sore, and his fingers were numb with cold, and he just wanted Caboose to stop talking (“Can we keep him? Please, Tucker? Can we? Please, please, please?”).

A high keening sound, louder than before, floats down the hall. Tucker winces, eyeing the door at the end of the hall.

Washington isn’t his friend. They’re hardly acquaintances. Wash barely speaks when spoken to, relying mostly on noncommittal shrugs to communicate. Okay, sure, Tucker hasn’t exactly been putting effort into becoming besties with the guy, but he’s a weird, spacey murderer. Who would jump to make friends with him? Well, _Caboose,_ but that’s not the point. The point is, Tucker really doesn’t want to deal with whatever the hell Wash has got going on. 

So, why’s he opening the door to Washington’s room?

* * *

Wash, Tucker thinks, sleeps like a dead person. 

He’s flat on his back, and his arms and legs are pulled in tight like he’s lying in a coffin, one hand tight against his chest while the other snakes under his pillow. Even in the dim light, Tucker can see Washington’s stiff as a board. He’s on top of the covers despite the chill of the room, and every inch of him is tense and trembling so hard Tucker’s muscles ache in sympathy. Wash tosses his head against the pillow, a low whine escaping his throat. Tucker finally remembers how to speak.

“...Hey, uh,” Tucker whispers. He clears his throat and tries again louder, “Washington?”

His face screws up in pain, sweat-damp hair sticking all directions. He lets loose a long, shuddering gasp that echoes off the bare cement walls. No wonder Caboose woke up.

Tucker edged towards the bed. “Dude, are you, like, fucking dying? Cause that’d kind of suck…”

Tucker can hear his teeth grinding as the man clenches his jaw and shudders away from something unseen. His hands claw at the blankets. He’s shaking head to toe. It’s like something out of an exorcism movie—even before Wash throws back his head and screams.

Tucker jumps back. “Holy mother— _fuck_ _!_ ”

But Wash keeps on howling like he’s being burned alive, raising the hair on the back of Tucker’s neck. 

“Hey, fuck, Washington—come on!” Tucker shouts. He fumbles for Wash’s shoulder. “You need to cut it—”

It hits Tucker that violently shaking the sleeping Freelancer out of a nightmare might be an exceptionally stupid idea at the exact same time Washington headbutts him in the nose.

Pain explodes through Tucker’s face, blinding him. Something slams into his chest so hard the air is ripped from his lungs and his feet leave the floor. He crashes to the concrete on his ass. The back of his head hits the floor, rattling his teeth. 

Maybe Tucker blacks out for a second or maybe he just blinks, but the next thing he knows Agent Washington his kneeling on his chest with a hand to his throat.

“Fuck—” Tucker gasps but is quickly cut off when Washington presses down on his windpipe.

“Washin...” Tucker chokes, “dude—get off. It’s me…”

Tucker paws at Freelancer’s wrist, but the man doesn’t flinch. Washington’s eyes are unfocused, staring straight through his teammate and sending cold crawling up Tucker’s spine. Washington might be awake, but nobody’s home. His face is expressionless even as his chest heaving with every breath. Wash’s hand grips Tucker’s throat—not enough to cut off his air, just enough to keep him down. Where’s his other hand _—_ _oh fuck._

Tucker almost shits himself right then and there because Washington has a _fucking knife_ raised above his head. 

Tucker’s hand flies to his pocket, grabbing for his sword. It’s out of reach. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. Where’s Wash going to land the blade? His face? His chest? _Oh,_ _god, make it quick. Caboose and Junior will be so upset._

One second. Two seconds. Tucker sneaks a peek up at the Freelancer. Wash is frozen in place, knife still raised above his head, but Tucker can see the hand shaking.

“Washing—” Tucker tries, but the hand at his throat twitches, and he shuts up. Tucker’s pulse pounds in his ears. Those hazy eyes aren’t getting any clearer, still panicked and unseeing. 

Tucker swallows hard. He’s not stupid enough to think he can win a fight with Wash—especially pinned down without his sword. 

Slowly, with shaking hands, he lets go of Washington’s wrist and lays his hands back against the floor. _A gesture of surrender._

“Wash,” Tucker breathes. Wash shudders ever so slightly but doesn’t tighten his grip so Tucker keeps going. “Wash. It’s me. _Tucker._ It’s...okay. You’re okay.”

Washington sucks in a breath. It’s almost impossible to see in the dark room, but Tucker thinks there is a flicker of life in those blank eyes. Tucker keeps perfectly still, stomach-churning. He suddenly becomes aware of the blood oozing from his nose and streaming down either side of his face.

“I _need,”_ Tucker whispers, “you to. Drop. The. Knife.”

Wash is trembling from head to toe now, gaze locked on Tucker’s throat. Tucker can’t breathe, and it has nothing to do with Wash’s grip on his windpipe.

“Wash, wake up.” Tucker’s murmurs turning into pleads. “You don’t want to do this.” 

“Tucker? Church?”

Wash’s head shoots up. His eyes fly to the door as Caboose creaks the bedroom door open. Tucker makes his move.

 _Oh, please don’t kill me,_ Tucker thinks wildly as he raises a fist and brings it down on the back of Wash’s neck—hard. 

It was something that kept coming up when Doc was piecing the Freelancer back together after the fight with the Meta. No one touches the back of Wash’s neck. Doc only made that mistake once, and if Wash hadn’t been suffering from a pretty serious concussion, the Freelancer probably would have snapped the medic’s wrist clean in half. The whole area is a mess of neat surgical scars, jagged scar tissue, and frightening looking metal implants that look a lot more...experimental than the tidy ones the sim troopers are outfitted with. It hurts like hell to look at.

And Tucker’s betting it feels a lot worse to have someone bury their fist in it.

The effect is instant. Wash seizes up and crumples. Tucker kicks his legs, catching the man in the stomach, and hurls him off of him. 

Tucker scrambles to his feet and collides with Caboose on his way to the door.

“Fucking Christ,” he wheezes. Tucker clutches at the hulking soldier’s shirt to keep his shaking legs from giving out. “Christ fuck…”

Caboose’s eyes are wide, looking down at Tucker and then across the room.

“...Church?” He asks, voice too small for such a hulking soldier.

Tucker follows his gaze. 

Washington is hunched on hands and knees with one white-knuckled hand gripping the back of his neck. His forehead is pressed to the floor as ragged gasps are dragged out of him—like he was the one that almost got fucking choked out. 

“What the fuck?” Tucker wheezes, wiping at his nose and smearing blood across his face. 

Washington jolts violently and scrambles away from them, pressing his back to the wall. He blinks around the room as if he’s just woken up, his eyes landing on Tucker and Caboose, and his breath catches for a moment. Then his eyes flicker down to the knife on the floor at his feet.

“O-oh, god” he breathes, voice hoarse from screaming. His arms curl around his head, and his knees are pulled to his chest. “W-what-t did I-I-I…”

 _“What_ the _fuck?”_ Tucker says again, louder this time, and Wash flinches, pressing back against the wall like he’s trying to disappear. 

“G-get…” Washington studders. He sucks in a long breath, and then,

 _“Get out!”_ Wash shouts.

“What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy fuck?” Tucker snarls back, happy to replace the fear bubbling in his chest with anger. 

_“Go away!”_ Wash screams, curling even tighter into a ball. _“Get away from me!”_

Tucker grabs Caboose by the arm and drags him from the room. He slams the door shut behind them, sending a tremor rattling through the base.

 _“Psycho freak!”_ Tucker yells, and he shoves Caboose down the hall to his room.

Behind them, Wash’s lock clicks into place. 


	2. Two

Tucker doesn’t know how he manages to fall asleep, but Caboose’s snoring wakes him at about 6 am. He blinks around the room, taking in the crayon drawings and machine blueprints—also drawn in crayon—plastering the walls. 

Beside him, Caboose is spread-eagle on the bed, drooling into his pillow. Tucker rolls his shoulders, trying to relieve the stiffness earned from sitting up against the wall all night. His gaze falls to his deactivated energy sword in his lap.

Right. 

It isn’t like Tucker forgot what happened during the night. His chest is still tight with the remnants of nightmares that had seen the incident end differently. Bloody.

Somewhere in the base, a floorboard creaks. Tucker jolts, sword flashing to life in his hand. His eyes fly to the door. 

The handle doesn’t turn, the door doesn’t open. There isn’t even the shadow of feet passing by. The base is eerily silent—save for Caboose’s cartoonishly loud snores. After five minutes, Tucker’s starting to think he imagined it. He almost misses the distant sound of a door clicking shut. 

Tucker listens. One minute. Two. 

Pushing Caboose’s beefy arm off him, Tucker hops off the bed and tiptoes across the room. Ever so slowly, he reaches up and unlocks the door. He takes a deep breath.

He opens the door.

* * *

The kitchen is empty. So is the common area. The base feels cold and gray in the hazy morning light. The coffee pot is off, which is weird considering the unspoken rule that the first person up and about is in charge of prepping it. That’s usually Washington, what with his absolutely fucked sleep schedule.

But Tucker doesn’t want to think about Washington right now. What he wants is an ice pack for his nose because it might not be broken, but it hurts like a bitch. Deactivating his sword, Tucker grabs some ice and heads for the bathroom.

After nudging the door open to make sure a rabid Freelancer isn’t hiding inside, Tucker looks in the mirror to check the damage. _Oof._ The bleeding has stopped, but his shirt looks like a crime scene. Tucker hadn’t thought to grab tissues or gauze or even a medkit before locking himself and Caboose in the blue soldier’s room for the night. He gingerly inspects the colorful swelling he’s going to be sporting for a while.

He wonders if he gave Washington any bruises to add to his already sizable collection. 

Tucker pulls back from the mirror and scoffs. He doesn’t give a shit about how Washington is feeling because it serves him the fuck right after almost murdering Tucker.

Tucker heads back to the common area. There’s a basket of laundry beside the door that the teal soldier hasn’t gotten around to folding. Tucker is fishing out a clean shirt to replace his blood-stained one when he notices the boots lined up neatly in the entryway. The two sets of boots. 

There’s supposed to be three. 

* * *

Wash’s room is empty.

* * *

The sun has barely crept above the distant glacier peaks on the horizon. There’s no snow this close to Sidewinder’s equator, but the landscape remains a tundra of frozen earth and hardy brown plants. 

Tucker catches up with Washington two miles up the road, slowing the warthog to a crawl beside him. 

“You goin’ my way, baby?” Tucker drawls, leaning out of the driver’s side with a wink. 

Washington doesn’t stop walking. He glares ahead at the long dirt road stretching into the windswept wasteland, pointedly not looking at Tucker. 

_Okay, well, fuck._ Dead silence wasn’t an option Tucker considered when mapping out this conversation in his head after he realized Wash had up and left. Then again, catcalling the guy hadn’t been on the agenda either, but Tucker’s mouth is always one step ahead. He’s a lot better at this whole banter thing when the other person can dish it out as good as they get. That was one of the nice things about Church. The asshole always had an answer, even if it was just “fuck you.”

“It’s cold as balls,” Tucker says, jumping on the first thing that comes into his head. “Where the hell are you going dressed like that?”

Washington is wearing the poorly fitting fatigue pants and shirt Caboose and Tucker had gifted him (though, Tucker was a lot more begrudging about it than Caboose). The Freelancer must have found the frayed military jacket somewhere in the abandoned base they’d taken over following the fight with the Meta. One of his hands holds it shut against the perpetually icy air. The other grips a sagging duffle bag thrown over his shoulder. 

Washington picks up speed.

“You going somewhere?” Tucker prods, the engine of the warthog growling as he gives it just enough gas to keep Washington’s pace. 

Tucker watches the man’s jaw clench, mouth set in a grim line. 

Tucker sighs dramatically. “Listen, I don’t wanna have to be the one to tell Caboose that his pet ran away, so get your broody ass back t—”

“Take it!” Washington snarls, rounding on Tucker and causing him to slam breaks. Wash hurls the duffel bag to the frozen ground beside the warthog.

“Just fucking _take it_ , okay?” Washington snaps louder, dragging a hand through his hair as he paces the road. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken anything, so just fucking take it, _okay?”_

Tucker cranes his neck out of the idling car to look down at the contents of the bag now spilled across the dirt. Two MREs and a flashlight.

Tucker doesn’t know what Washington sees in the confusion on the teal soldier’s face, but the man lets loose a harsh laugh. Washington rips off the jacket and flings that to the dirt as well.

“There,” he says, folding his arms firmly across his chest. “You have everything. Now, just fucking go.”

Tucker just sits there for a moment.

“What the—god _damn it,”_ Tucker snarls right back, throwing the warthog in park and clambering out. “I don’t give a fuck about a flashlight and some _bags of chicken-_ fucking _-flavored rice!”_

Wash has the nerve to look pissed. 

_“What do you want then?”_ He yells, throwing out his arms. “WHY THE HELL ARE YOU OUT HERE?!”

“That’s MY LINE, you ABSOLUTE ASSWIPE!” Tucker shouts back. _“_ What are YOU doing out here? Are you actually _running away?”_

“What do you want? _An apology?_ Like that’s going to _fix this?”_ Wash shouts. “Fine! I’m sorry!” 

And the words come pouring out. 

_“I’m sorry!”_ Wash yells again. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but I did, and _I’m sorry._ Is that what you want to hear? _I’m sorry_ I’m broken, _I’m sorry_ I killed Church, and _I’m sorry_ _I wasted your time.”_

With that, Wash drops to the dirt, the fight sucked right out of him by the outburst. He sits there, head drooping and silent save for his uneven panting. 

For some reason, it hits Tucker at this exact moment that this is the longest conversation he and Washington have ever had.

“There,” Wash says finally, voice subdued. “I said it. You can go. You don’t have to worry about me anymore.” He doesn’t make any move to stand up.

Tucker actually laughs. “Seriously, dude? The nearest settlement is like 70 miles away. What are you going to do? Walk?”

“I can handle it,” Wash says dully.

“Dude,” Tucker says, pointing to Wash’s shirt. “You’re bleeding.”

Wash startles, looking down and finally noticing the slowly growing patch of blood at his side. 

“Shit,” he curses, lifting the fabric to reveal a soaked square of gauze.

Tucker pulls a face. “Ugh, I thought Doc stitched you up.”

“Tore them,” Wash mumbles, pulling at the bandage to inspect the wound and face pinching at what he finds. “...Last night.”

Wash glances up at the cold, dirt road ahead and then down at the blood seeping out from around his hand pressed to his wound, frowning. 

Tucker rolls his eyes and sighs. “Alright, get in.”

Wash narrows his eyes. “Where are we going?”

“To Mars,” Tucker says flatly. “Where the fuck do you think? Back to base to get your sorry ass stitched up again.”

Wash blinks. “What?”

“No, you heard me,” Tucker says, turning heel and climbing back in the car. Last night is still too fresh for him to offer the man a hand. “Get in the car.” 

Still looking a little like a deer caught in headlights, Wash shakily climbs to his feet, wincing all the way. He hisses in pain bending down to pick up his things before limping around the warthog to climb in the passenger seat.

Staring straight out the windshield, Tucker grits his teeth and grips the steering wheel like it owes him money. It would be so much easier to hate Wash if he made excuses or pretended last night never happened. It’s a lot harder to hate someone when they’re standing in front of you in the cold, bleeding and apologizing for taking a coat and some meager rations. _Goddammit._

“I still hate you,” Tucker blurts out, every word tasting like a lie. 

Wash just nods, tired eyes still fixed on the place where the dirt road meets the horizon in the distance. He sags against the seat, pale and with sweat beading at his brow.

“Look,” Tucker says, slumping his shoulders, “I’m not stopping you from leaving. You’re a grown-ass, presumed KIA adult and can do whatever the hell you want. I just…recommend doing it with proper supplies and when you’re not bleeding everywhere.”

Wash looks over at him.

“I can leave later?” he asks quietly.

Tucker shrugs. “It’s up to you. You don’t owe us anything.”

Wash looks like he’s about to argue but seems to think better of it. He’s visibly shivering now. Tucker cranks up the heat before turning the warthog around and heading back towards base.

“Are...are you okay?” Wash asks softly. 

Tucker looks over at him, taking in how he’s slumped against the seat even as his hands tightly gripped the wound. Up close, Tucker can see a ghastly bruise peeking out from under the collar of his t-shirt. Whether it’s from him or the Meta, Tucker can’t be sure.

He turns his eyes back to the road. “I’m fine,” Tucker says, even as his nose pulses in pain at the memory of the previous night. 

“I should have warned you not to come near me when I’m sleeping,” Wash all but whispers.

“Is screaming like a...like an opera-singing howler monkey... _normal_ for you?”

Wash shrugs.

“Whatever,” Tucker says. “Just try not to get blood all over the seats. I just had this thing cleaned.”

“What? How?”

“It’s a joke, Wash.” That’s weird. When did Washington become Wash?

“Oh.”

They ride in silence for a few moments before Wash speaks up again. “Tucker?”

“Hm?”

“...Thanks.”

Tucker stares straight ahead as the base comes into view. “Don’t mention it.”

**Author's Note:**

> [artistically-failing](https://artistically-failing.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr requested a fic about Wash waking up swinging, so here we are! This fic fought me so hard- I rewrote the last half four times and scrapped it each time -but I'm pleased with the results! Stay tuned for the happy/hopeful ending!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Sleeping Habits](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24531526) by [GoLBPodfics (GodOfLaundryBaskets)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodOfLaundryBaskets/pseuds/GoLBPodfics)




End file.
